


In the Creases

by Serindrana



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 11,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles concerning Nathaniel/Cauthrien. Not all the same continuity, some AUs. Rating varies by drabble - check the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot Chocolate [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by MissL0nelyHearts.
> 
> G.

Snow still clings to the ground and stone where roofs and walls shelter it from the rain, but it won’t last long. The winter has taken its final miserable turn, when it is not quite cold enough to put ice in the stable troughs but it is still cold enough to sting, to ache, and like always in Amaranthine it’s accompanied by heavy rains. Winters are dry, only a few inches of snow at most - until the air begins to warm just the slightest bit.

But he’s lived in Amaranthine for enough of his life to know just the cure to what has Cauthrien bundled in heavy wools as she worked on mending her armor, her fingers stiff where they peek out from her sleeves. She wears gloves, but they do not cover the tips of her fingers, and were knitted so long ago they fray along the palm.

“There’s a fire in the main hall,” he says as he settles down cross-legged beside her. The carpet she sits on at least breaks the worst of the cold, and his hands only shake faintly as he shivers and sets the cup and saucer down.

“Everything I need is in here,” she responds without looking up.

He can’t help his chuckle. “That it is.” He already knew she would refuse, and so he simply shifts the cup and saucer closer. She pauses her work at the sound of porcelain against the carpet, and looks down.

She eyes it cautiously. “And that is?”

“Hot chocolate. It’s just the thing in this weather.”

“Chocolate-” she says, as if sounding it out- and then she groans. “Maker, it’s that Orlesian confection.”

And those five words have him burning with embarrassment. He coughs to cover it up, shifting his weight. “I- ah-“

But as he watches and stumbles over words, she reaches out and takes the cup, folding her frigid fingers around it and bringing it to her lips. Her eyes narrow, then close, and she takes a sip.

“… Any good?” he asks when she says nothing.

“Not so good as spiced cider,” she says, and he holds his breath. She cracks a smile. “But nothing’s better than spiced cider. No, this is good. Thank you.”

His chuckle is relieved and grateful and all-too-amused. “I’ll drop a suggestion to the cooks, then. Hopefully we’ll have a good Fereldan cider at dinner, to counteract our little bit of cultural treason.”

“Did it have to be Orlesian?” she says with an answering laugh.

“Well,” he says with a shrug, “the Antivans make a similar drink. But they add peppers to it.”

His chuckle breaks into all-out laughter as she crinkles her nose and drinks her Orlesian cocoa instead.


	2. Tension [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by StealYourShiny, "Archery lessons."
> 
> G.

“Well, you have the strength for it, at least,” Nathaniel says as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The arrow is lost; there’s no point in looking for it out in the fields, not with how far she shot it. The target remains unmarked, and after a brief thought, he steps close to Cauthrien. “Here, let me-“

“I can manage,” she says, her brow creased and jaw tense. She’s frustrated; he can see it in the way she curls her fingers too far around the string as she draws back again, the way she’s locked her elbow where she holds the bow from her. Her pride is wounded; five arrows lost, and not one has been anywhere near the rather larger, rather close target.

He takes a deep breath. “Please?”

Her shoulders seem to tighten even more for just a moment, but then she relents. She has grown better at relenting to him in the last several months, and her lips even curl into a wry smile as he fits himself against her, closer than he needs to be. He breathes warm against the shell of her ear, and she slowly relaxes the string.

Nathaniel’s hand slides down her upper arm to her elbow, which he eases into an angle that won’t hurt the joint and will let her control herself more easily. His fingers against her other hand shift her hold so that the string is braced only on the pads of her fingers. And then he moves with her as she draws again.

“Shh,” he murmurs, nuzzling at the side of her head. “Don’t worry so much.”

“I…” she says, then falters, draw arm giving. She takes a deep breath and redraws. “I want to… do well.” Her throat bobs as she swallows. “For you,” she adds, almost so soft that he can’t hear the words.

He can’t help his small laugh, kissing her scalp. “Shh. Don’t worry so much.”

She snorts, but her lips quirk into a full smile and her next arrow glances the side of the target.


	3. Sleep [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by GreyTaliesin, "Like Otters."
> 
> G.

It took time for Cauthrien to adjust to sleeping with another beside her, whether they were in a tent with bedrolls side by side or curled in his bed or hers in the keep. She wasn’t used to the movements of somebody so close by when she was sleeping, and for the first month, she would start awake at the slightest motion.

In time, she grew used to it, first waking but staying still and falling easily back asleep, and then not marking it at all.

But the nightmares were harder.

When she wasn’t dragged down into horror dreams of running with darkspawn or being set upon by a hoard determined to make a broodmother, it was Nathaniel who jerked in his sleep and woke with a shout or with ragged breathing and sweat-slicked skin. Those never grew easier or less frequent; they could only take more comfort in waking up to the other, drawing close to shut out the fears and the panic.

And that was what made her bed down beside him every night she could. It was the comfort, the warmth, the familiarity. The knowledge that her closest ally, her dearest friend, was inches from her at the very most, and should she start awake, he would be there. He might only grunt in half-wakefulness and throw an arm over her, or touch her knee, but he was there.

It was a nightly affirmation that duty had not pulled them apart just yet, and eventually it became one of the many signs that theirs was not an alliance of the flesh alone, even if they were reluctant to admit it.

So when, on the ship to Ansburg, they had to sleep in separate hammocks that hung side by side but not close enough to touch or to share heat, Cauthrien reached across the space between them. Nathaniel took her hand.

And they slept like that, at least one link in the middle of the Waking Sea, every night for the whole of the journey.


	4. Home [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by GreyTaliesin, "Not at their best."
> 
> T.

“Let go of me, Nathaniel,” she hissed, and for a moment he wondered if this was what the Warden had felt when Cauthrien had nearly cut him down. He didn’t let go, instead tightening his hold on her, keeping her dragged against his chest.

“Stop,” he said, and then grunted as she landed a kick against his shin, just an inch below his knee. “Maker’s- _Cauthrien_ -“

“Let go of me. I can’t stay here.” She twisted her head around to look at him, her eyes alight with something he had never seen in her. Her lips trembled, and it wasn’t with need, or pleasure, and his gut settled into a knot.

 _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say, but all he could do was loosen his thumb just enough to stroke along her arm. He swallowed. “I know this is hard. But we need to leave for Ansburg in the morning. You can’t-“

“Can’t what? Can’t protect my _home_? Can’t protect Ferelden?”

“No,” he said, and he would have closed his eyes in shame if he didn’t think she would take the chance to injure him, if only to break free. “No, you can’t. It’s not your home anymore, Cauthrien.”

“Fuck you!” she growled, and this time, her kick hit his knee, and he shouted, releasing her and stumbling back. His only blessing was that she was barefoot, half-dressed, and while usually seeing her naked to the waist and impassioned was something that made his heart sing, now it was all he could do to stumble to the door, leaning hard against it.

She stared at him, hair down and wild, cheeks flushed, fingers curled into fists.

“Ferelden will always be my home. And you cannot change it, the Wardens can’t change it, the bleeding _Taint_ can’t change that.”

He wanted to say something. He wanted to soothe her, this snapping, snarling beast that reared its head, even though it had been almost two years since he’d held the Joining cup to her lips. He had thought she had moved on. He had hoped she had found a new purpose. And he had hoped- not that she would stay with him if the time every came to part, but that she would stay with him while she could.

And all this, for the barest rumor that there were troops on the other side of the Frostbacks, out of Jader-

“You really don’t give a _shit_ if Orlais is about to march on your home. You’re as bad as your father.”

 _No_.

Blood roared in his ears. Every muscle in his body went rigid, and he forced himself with the last shreds of self control he had to stay where he was. His lips curled into a snarl, and he bit out,

“ _I am not my father_!”

And she laughed.

She dragged her arming jacket on over her unbound breasts, fingers working hard at the toggles, jerking and tugging. “Oh, you may not be torturing people for your own sick perversions, or bleeding your country dry to coat your dick in _gold_ , but you’re just as bad. You would abandon it all, your home, your heritage, when it becomes an imposition. You-“

He slammed his fist into the door, wood booming as it shook in its stone frame. 

“ _I am a Warden_ , Cauthrien! Ferelden is not my home. And Ferelden has its queen to protect her, its people, and you?” His voice dropped in pitch as he shook his head, the muscles in his jaw and throat tensing, jumping beneath the skin. The fire in his blood poured from his tongue. “You gave up every right to be counted among them when you nearly burned this country to the ground, and again when you survived the Joining.” Her face paled, her eyes going wide as she stared at him across the few feet that separated them. He pushed forward. “And if you deny it, then you don’t know the meaning of your _loyalty_ , your _duty_ , and if you walk out this door- if you _leave_ -“

“What?” she asked. “What will you do?”

He swallowed, still shaking even as he uncurled his fists and pressed his palms flat to the door behind him. “You can’t come back.”

“That’s it? That’s _it_?” Her laugh was too high, and even through the thudding red haze of his anger he could see her shaking, could see the way her brows drew up. “I can take that.”

But there was nothing he could do. “If I see you again,” he continued, “I put an arrow through your throat, because you have betrayed the Order.”

He didn’t want to say it, not even with the spike of rage burning a hole in him. He didn’t want to imagine it, the creak of his bow, the sweat on his brow as he aimed. As he killed the woman he- that he-

“You would do that?” Cauthrien asked, and something in her gave, a bowing of her shoulders.

“I would have to,” he said, and he finally dared to close his eyes, exhaustion replacing ire as he sagged against the door. “Don’t push me to that. Please, don’t push me to that.”

“But Ferelden needs me,” she whispered.

“The Wardens need you, too.” He swallowed, pushing away from the wood and limping towards her, looking to her feet and not to her face.

“Not as much,” she protested, but it was weak, and when he reached out for her, she didn’t pull away. He settled trembling, anxious hands on her elbows, then pulled her closer. He looked at her, the way her lips parted and trembled as if she would cry- and he had never seen her cry. Rage, yes; hurt, yes. He had seen tears of agony beading her lashes.

But not this.

“The Wardens need you,” he repeated.

“The woman who lost all worth when she burned her home to ash,” Cauthrien breathed, and he flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching up to brush her hair behind her ears. His thumb traced the pattern of the kaddis he painted on her before battle.

“You’re not your father,” she mumbled in return, and his smile was weak but _there_ , the twist of his lips making his cheeks ache. He tugged her closer, and she bowed her head against his, eyes shutting and breath coming in shuddering but even measure.

“The Wardens need you,” he repeated once more, but this time his voice softened. He had wanted to never say it aloud, not with what stretched before them, the uncertainty of assignments and the necessity of duty. But he couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around her, and when her fingers curled around his waist in turn, he whispered only,

“ _I_ need you.”


	5. Biting Cold [AO]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by GreyTaliesin, "Biting cold."
> 
> AO

“Close your eyes,” Nathaniel murmured, and though six months ago, six _weeks_ ago, she may have hesitated - now it was the easiest thing in the world. She stayed on all fours on the mattress, head down, breathing as even as she could keep it. The mattress rose as he left it, and she could feel immediately the change in temperature, a lessening in the oppressive heat of Ansburg in the summer.

There was the _snick_ of one of the wooden chests being opened, the quiet clink of metal and wood shifting as Nathaniel looked for something, and then the heat of him was back, the mattress bowing once more, this time between her spread knees.

And then something very, _very_ cold slipped between her legs, and she cried out, eyes opening wide.

“Shh,” Nathaniel murmured, kissing her hip and the curve of her ass as he worked the object - cold, _so_ cold, and hard - between her folds, slipping over her nub then probing at her entrance. He didn’t press it forward. He retraced the path again, and then up her belly, the warmth of him against her back a shocking counterpoint to the trail of frost that seemed to climb her body. It left her for just a moment, then came back against one of her nipples, dragging a low moan from her.

“They were selling them,” he murmured, kissing a path along her spine, “by the bridge to the Circle, when I went today looking for recruits. To combat the heat.” He chuckled, the sound making her toes curl even more than the swirling path of the rod - that was what it is, what it felt like, a rod with tapered, rounded ends - up to the hollow of her throat. His other hand, warm and broad, slipped around her to splay on her belly.

“Maker’s breath,” she groaned, then whimpered as he touched the tip to her lips. She didn’t part them, and he didn’t linger long, but it left her breath hitching and needy. It didn’t help that he was tweaking her chilled and pebbled nipples with his wicked, _wicked_ fingers, and she wanted nothing more than to turn over, knock him down, and _take_ him.

But she’d agreed to let him run things this time, after she’d pinned him to a wall in an alley the day before and worked him through his leathers.

He trailed it down the center line of her body again, then around one hip and between them. She bit down on a whine of need, shivering, her body caught between the pressing northern heat and the constant trail of chill. She arched, and he chuckled again, nipping at her shoulder.

Cauthrien could feel him hard against the cleft of her ass, and he rocked against her as he fitted the rod between her legs again, this time the nudge at her entrance more insistent. He rocked it into her until it slipped inside, and she let out a whimpering sob, pressing her hips back against him and lowering her shoulders down to the mattress. “Maker _take you_ , Nathaniel!”

“You don’t mean that,” he said, voice thin even as he laughed. “Good, then?”

She answered only with a needy groan, pressing down against his hand.

He rocked his hips against her in time with the thrusting of the rod, and she felt herself grow cold almost to the point of unfeeling. It spread through her, countering too the heat coiling in her belly. Her fingers curled tight into the thin sheets, and she pushed her forehead against the straw stuffing at the constant wash of _too much, too good_ , the cold soothing and working her up in tandem.

And then he let it slip from her. It fell to the mattress and rolled to the edge, hitting the floor just as he angled himself and thrust into her.

His own groan was hissed between clenched teeth, and ended in a sigh, his hands coming to clutch her hips as he rocked forward, slow at first. She could feel his heat, distantly, as she warmed again, the contrast confusing and intoxicating. His kisses along her back burned like brands, the scrape of his stubble heated friction, and every thrust warmed her to her core.

She’d never thought that in the middle of a northern summer she’d be seeking heat, driving back against him like a dog in heat, hissing his name and, finally, begging him for a touch. His fingers against her were hot and firm, and in concert with the snap of his hips, drove her into melting, shuddering, shouting ecstasy with a few last, hard motions.

It took him only a few moments more before he shuddered to his halt with a cry, a few moments more for him to collapse beside her. They were sweat-slicked and sticking to one another, but he pulled her close for a sliding kiss before sitting up. She watched him through slitted eyes as he leaned off the bed to retrieve the rod - just as she had thought it, if smaller, and shedding frost like a mage’s hands.

He tucked it beneath the sheets and then drew the fabric up over the both of them, trapping the light, lingering chill.

“I think,” he murmured, pulling her back into his arms, “this is how they’re _supposed_ to be used.”

She didn’t bother asking for clarification; both made a wonderful sort of sense.

 


	6. Deep in Dreams [G]

When the desire demon offered her Loghain, Nathaniel wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t hurt, though jealousy and regret did twist in his chest. He understood, because he understood her.

And he understood that it wasn’t just Loghain on offer.

It was honor. It was Ferelden. It was home. It was her old life, everything she had once fought for and had been forced to surrender because she could no longer guard it. (It was also the older man’s hands and voice and gaze, and even Nathaniel could admit that words of desire from that man’s lips - grudging and a little cruel - could entice.)

He understood, and he understood even more when the demon shifted to the form of his father. Desires weren’t just of the flesh, but of belonging. Of power.

Of understanding.

He blinked and saw her, and only her, vulnerable and lost and alone. Later, she told him she had seen the same - him, broken down and disgraced.

But understanding couldn’t be bought with a wish, and where he was strong, she was even stronger. She struck the first blow. She tore down the first pieces of the illusion, and he destroyed all of the rest.


	7. Proper Etiquette [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G.

“What is expected of us?” Nathaniel murmured, head inclined so that his breath slid hot over her ear. In response, she stood wholly still, hands clasped behind her, legs shoulder-width apart. She looked directly ahead.

“To be present,” she said, flat and quiet, “and to watch. Grey Wardens are neutral, yes?”

He pulled away with a creak of leather, looking out at the Orlesian court, at the grand hall they stood by the edge of, the columns and carpets and tapestries. The thrown was nearby, Celene seated upon it. _Wait_ , she had told them, _wait there, and I will see you when I am able_. But it had been a parade of nobles and chevaliers, entreaties and simple social visits, and the empress had made no move to beckon them forward.

“Neutral,” he said with a huff, “as well as unwanted.”

“She is making a statement,” Cauthrien sighed, glancing to him. Her own displeasure and tension was obvious in the set of her jaw, the sharpness of her gaze. “That she may make the Grey Wardens wait, and that we will do so for her, where all can see. And she is showing us off. Nathaniel Howe and the dreaded Ser Cauthrien - we make a romantic pair.”

“You know all of this?”

She shrugged, a tiny thing almost lost beneath her armor. “Knights must know the ways of leaders. You would have learned it, too, if you’d ever moved beyond being a squire.”

He grimaced, and she expected a retort, a protest, that he had not been knighted because of his father’s whims and not because of any lack of ability. The argument was old, and she pricked at it as defense. Instead, he shook his head.

“Romantic?” he murmured.

Her lips quirked. “Oh, yes. Very.”


	8. Deep Winter [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T.

Winters in Weisshaupt are not so bad as winters in Ferelden, even if the cold nips more sharply and the winds howl loudly enough at night that she can’t sleep. The chill is pervasive, but it is dry and distant. In Ferelden it clings and seeps, wet and winding, able to get through to the bones and settle there even with layers of fur and wool. Here, in the mountains, waiting for an assignment that never comes, she can sit ensconced behind her desk or work in the yard until the heat of her body wins out over the cold. There, she doesn’t even need the heavy layers. There, she still feels a little like herself.

But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss Ferelden. Fereldan winters are worse by far, but she would trade it all in an instant to step foot on the land of her home once more. She would be more willing to be exiled to the Frostbacks than to Weisshaupt, would gladly suffer the indignities of wading through the swamps of the Wilds rather than make a brief trip down to the Imperium.

It’s when the sight of snow has her most nostalgic that he arrives, too much of home and just enough all in two words. _Nathaniel Howe_. Grey Warden, on mission from the post in Amaranthine, and in need of a Warden who can command men.

She can do that, and more, and if the First Warden would argue, she has sharp words and a sharper blade for him.

—

They are scheduled to leave in two mornings’ time, and there are preparations to be made, but she doesn’t stir from her bed. It is warm beneath the covers and the furs, and the body beside her does much to force away the foreign chill. His accent is not, perhaps, completely of home, and sometimes waking from a nightmare of memory the lines of his face remind her too much of what was lost. But he will draw her away from this place and lead her back home.

And more than that, he will match her, laugh with her, and stare her down in the practice yard, even if he cannot hold his own without a dagger or a quick trick. The Wardens are not home, even now, but she things that perhaps, with a little mud and rain and bone-deep cold, they can be.


	9. Want [T, high school AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a high school AU with GreyTaliesin.
> 
> T.

He’d had more than a few beers, and the music Leliana had going through the house sound system was too loud, and he knew Cauthrien was uncomfortable with it all. She was tense. It was something beyond how straight her shoulders were - that was normal, familiar even. Welcome. _Perfect_.

He stuffed the thought down, just like always.

“Do you want to go?” he asked, and the older woman (too much older, six years and that she even spent time around him continued to amaze him) looked over to him, brows lifted in surprise.

“You aren’t having fun?” she asked.

“Are you?”

She snorted, then laughed, shaking her head. “You’re getting good at reading me.”

“It’s not so hard.” He tried on a smile, and she echoed it with one of her own. “But if you’re not- we can go. You can go. I’m serious.”

“You’ve been looking forward to this.”

He’d been looking forward more to her going with him than the party itself, and seeing her awkward and apart risked making him angry at people who really had done nothing wrong. He shook his head. “Yes, but it’s not like how I thought it would be. Go ahead.”

Cauthrien looked towards the door, then motioned with a nod of her head for him to follow. He trailed after the police officer (really, bringing an (off-duty) cop to a high school party? Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , but he never thought of her that way, not now), head buzzing despite its beer fog. “I’m in no state to drive home,” he pointed out when they reached the door. “You have my keys, anyway.”

She patted her pocket. “I do. And I have a second helmet. Come on.”

—

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel awkward or pathetic or stupid, sitting on the back of Cauthrien’s bike with his arms tight around her waist. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about a lot of things the woman did, or that he wanted to do with her. But if he was supposed to feel any of those things, he didn’t. Instead, he felt giddy and a little confused and a little wonderful.

He was on _her bike_ , with _her_ , and she hadn’t even hesitated to ask it of him.

And they were going back to her apartment.

 _I’m not answering your dad’s questions if I bring you home without your car_ , she’d told him while she walked him through basic bike safety. _I don’t want him knowing I was with you_. But she was willing to let him crash at his place - and to let him fit himself up against her back, thighs against hers. She didn’t flinch when he curled his arms around her. She just- _was_.

Maker, he was going to make an ass of himself, and he didn’t care.

She was twenty-five and had done a stint in the army. She was a police officer. She was too old for him even with the year and a half he’d spent dicking around in the Free Marches instead of studying, and she was too good for him, had her life too much in order. She was even decent at hockey, or could at least tell him how much he sucked. They’d met when he saw her after school one day talking with an administrator, when she’d set herself up as sponsor for the school’s ROTC division, and he’d said hello on a whim, and she said she’d seen him play with the Wardens.

And now-

Her apartment was on the third floor, and he followed her up on legs made unsteady from the throb of the bike and not the glow of beer still making him languid and a little bold. He watched as she unlocked the door, smiled as she let him in and took his jacket. It was a small apartment, with a couch and a card table and a bedroom down the hall, and not much else. But it felt- important, stepping foot in it.

She locked the door behind her, and toed off her boots before moving over to the kitchenette. “Want anything?”

 _You_ , he thought to say- and then he stopped himself. He stared at her. She looked back with a small smile, her head tilted just a little.

He crossed the room and rested his hands on the island counter that separated them. He looked her straight in the eye. And he said,

“You.”


	10. News pt. 1 [T, high school AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a high school AU with GreyTaliesin.
> 
> T.

He was at the autoshop when he saw it on the news, waiting on the bill for another fender bender he’d been in the week before. The week before, when his father had been led away in handcuffs. The week before, the last time he’d talked to Cauthrien. The week before-

But the television was on in the waiting room, and he was barely paying attention until he heard her name.

It was just a fleeting mention. The headline ran  _Acting Mayor Loghain Mac Tir, Arrested On Corruption Charges_ , and there were reporters, police, crowds swarming city hall as the man was led out. He, at least, went peacefully. He had none of the bruises, the cuts, the singed-scent of a tazer hit. He kept his chin high.

And walking by his side was Cauthrien. Lieutant Cauthrien. She was in her uniform and she, too, kept her eyes straight ahead, until the cameraman and reporter for the news station got up close.

“Lieutenant! Can you speak to the police involvement in Mac Tir’s actions?”

“I am not authorized to speak on the matter,” Cauthrien grit out, still not looking towards the camera.

“Is it true that Mac Tir would have made you police commissioner?”

Cauthrien froze, and it was Loghain who answered, turning and snarling out, “That is none of your  _Maker-damned business_!” before he was hauled away. Cauthrien stood in the background as a flushed and excited reporter got in front of the camera.

There was talk - talk of corruption across the whole city, law enforcement’s involvement in it, nepotism and favoritism, extortion and bribes. But Nathaniel didn’t listen. His eyes were fixed on Cauthrien, her face still and pale.

When she finally moved, he did too, rising to his feet. He told the attendant at the desk he’d be back - sometime - call his phone - and then he rushed out of the building and to the nearest bus station.

—

She wasn’t at her apartment. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected - hoped - she would be there, or why he wanted to find her there. A week ago he’d told her never wanted to see her again. A week ago-

A week ago he’d made a mistake.

While he stood at the bus stop waiting for the next one, wondering where she could be - the station, she’d be at the station, he couldn’t  _go to the station_  to find her, but he had to look everywhere else - he finally called her. He had to dial from memory; he’d deleted her entry the moment he’d left her at the station, trembling with pain and anguish and betrayal.

It rang.

She didn’t pick up.

He called her every two minutes all the way to the park where they’d once spent an evening sitting together. It was a few days after his court date for breaking into the school, and she had been Cauthrien then, not Officer Waldegrave. It had been nice. She’d helped him break the law - she brought the beer.

But that day, she wasn’t there.

—

It was when he finally gave up and went home, still riding the bus and walking because he couldn’t bring himself to slink back to the autoshop, that he found her. Her bike was parked in front - she’d never parked her bike in front, only her squad car, and only  _once_. And before he even went to the door, he circled around back and walked through the growing sunset to the pond.

During the winter, he had practiced here, and she had watched, and she had criticized everything and he had learned to, instead of hating it, use it to get at least a little better.

It was spring now, wet and muddy and uncomfortably chilly, and Cauthrien was standing at the edge of the pond.

For a moment, he considered leaving. He considered using his phone to dial the police, report a tresspasser. But he didn’t. He watched her instead. She had shed her uniform and stood in her riding leathers. Her gaze was distant.

She looked tired.

“Hey,” he said as he began walking towards her.

“Hey,” she said.

“I didn’t- why are you here?”

“I don’t know.” She ran her hand over the top of her head, then finally looked to him. “Why are you?”

“Gave up looking for you.”

“… Oh.” Her hand dropped back to her side, and she frowned, then looked back out to the pond. “You could have called.”

“I did. At least fifty times. You didn’t answer.”

Cauthrien reached for her pocket, then sighed. “Work phone.”

“Oh.”

He stood there, uncertain of what to do. Here was the woman who had arrested his father, who had ruined his family - but she was also the woman who had spent time with him when nobody else would, who had let him into her bed and her life even though she was six years older and too good for him.

He took a step closer. “So, uh. What- what happened today? I saw the news-“

“Everything went to shit, that’s what.” She grimaced, then scrubbed at her face with her hands. “Maker, I thought- I thought we were doing what was right. I didn’t know about half of what he’d done. And when I found out…”

“When you found out?”

“I blew the whistle. Rendon told me some of it last week, the rest I put together on my own. He was- he was going to make me police commissioner. Keep me in his pocket. I’m only twenty-five, why the  _fuck_  did he think that would fly? That any of it would?” Her words came fast, hard, burning in the air and contorting her face and throat into a snarl. And then she sagged again, exhausted.

He came close enough to touch her shoulder.

“So what now?”

“Should probably leave the city. I don’t know. I’m being stripped of my rank. They’re not getting rid of me - I  _did my service_  well enough at the end - but I’m back to leaving traffic tickets. Maybe for the rest of my life.”

“They won’t keep you there.” His hand slid down her arm as if it weren’t under his control, carefully touching at the heel of her hand until she uncurled her fist. He laced his fingers with hers. She didn’t pull away. “You’re too good.”

“Right. Good. That’s what this is.” She sighed and looked down to where their hands were joined. “Why are you here? I thought we were done.”

“We were,” he muttered, toeing the ground and then digging his heel in to stop himself. He shrugged. “I- we can start again, though. When I saw you on the news-” He gave up, and tugged on her hand. “Come on. Delilah will still be at work. Come inside and have a drink.”

“You’re acting like you’re not a thick-headed high school student,” she said, with a faint smirk and even fainter laugh edging her words.

“Two months and I’m not anymore. Come on.”


	11. News pt. 2 [AO, high school AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a high school AU with GreyTaliesin.
> 
> AO

Underneath her leathers she was wearing just ratty old jeans and a black wifebeater. It was the most down he’d ever seen her, and she looked almost at ease sitting in the living room, on the couch with a beer and a blanket draped around her shoulders (his suggestion). He sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table and tried to focus on the news she had on.

But it was painful, hearing the speculation as to what his father had done, what her boss had done, what she had done. They were theorizing that perhaps she’d been in league with Loghain, or at least sleeping with him.

She watched without comment.

Finally, he leaned over and took the remote from beside her on the couch and changed the channel. He flipped past sports and cartoons until he hit the home shopping network, and then tossed down the remote and looked at her.

“You can’t do that,” he said.

She frowned at the tv, then at the remote, then at him. “What?”

“Just- watching it. The whole time. You’ll drive yourself crazy. Trust me, I learned that last week.” He offered a small, thin smile, then sat back, weight on his hands.

“I’m not watching QVC, Nathaniel.”

“Then change the channel. To something that’s not news.”

She stared at him, then slowly shook her head, a chuckle rising from her throat. She reached for the remote. “Right.”

“What?”

“You’re acting like an adult again. Or trying to.” Cauthrien sat back against the cushions, flipping through to the free movie channels.

“Trying, yeah. If you want, I could always take you upstairs instead so you can see my dirty socks and unmade bed? To remind you?”

She snorted. “No thank you.”

“I didn’t think so.” He considered, briefly, excusing himself to go clean the mess - it wasn’t so bad - but his posters would still be there, his trinkets, all the signs that he was still a kid. He didn’t want her to see that, not right now, even if he would acknowledge it in words. He looked at her a moment longer, then scooted over to lean against the couch, not too close, but- closer. He leaned his head back against the cushion.

She settled on a sci-fi movie and it had gone on for maybe half an hour when he decided he needed to say something again. She had always been quiet, but she was absolutely silent except for occasional sips of her beer. He didn’t touch his. He just watched the movie - and her - until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He opened his mouth.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 **Delilah:** won’t be coming home tonight

 **Delilah:** albert proposed!

Nathaniel stared down at it for a moment, then sighed and typed out a response.

 **Nathaniel** : congrats talk to you in the morning

Cauthrien glanced to him, and he shrugged. “Apparently my sister has decided to get married in the wake of our family ruin.” His smile was tight, and he had to fight to keep his temper in check. He was not usually a violent or angry man - he tended to keep it inside - but this last week-

His fingers curled more tightly around his phone, until he felt Cauthrien’s hand settle on his shoulder. “Hey,” she said.

He relaxed into her touch and closed his eyes. “Upshot is,” he said after a moment, “she won’t be coming back tonight. So if you- want, you could stay.”

It was hard not to think of the night so many months ago when he’d stayed over at her place, when he’d told her he’d wanted her, and she’d turned him down. Or the other time he had crashed at her place, exhausted after a game and angry after a fight with his father. That time she’d been drinking along with him - for reasons he hadn’t understood, but now thought had to do with Loghain, with Rendon - and that night she hadn’t turned him down.

In the morning she’d told him not to speak of it again, that it had been a mistake, and he had bit his tongue and obeyed.

From there things had gone on - no more heated touches, but small ones of comfort, and they had taken to just spending time together. But she had refused to cross that line.

He didn’t want her to (well, he did, but not like this, not now, not unless she wanted it), but going home - he knew how hard that could be.

He’d learned it a week ago.

“I mean,” he continued, “there’s a guest room. It’s just if you want to get smashed tongiht, and don’t want to drive home. My car’s in the shop, so I can’t-“

She interrupted with a squeeze of his shoulder. “It’s fine. I’ll stay here.”

—

He ended up ordering Par Vollen take out for them while she splashed her face with cold water and tried to make herself feel human again, instead of the odd numbness that had settled over her for the past week. She considered a full on shower, scalding hot and then frigid to shock her back, and even turned the faucet on for a few sputtering drips before thinking better of it.

It was only walking out that she realized she hadn’t told him what she wanted, but he waved a hand and just said, “The noodles with pork and cinnamon, right?”

She nodded.

“I remembered.”

He smiled where he was leaning against the kitchen island, phone by his hand, and she had to take a moment to remind herself that he was just a kid, nineteen (almost twenty, some part of her whispered) and foolish and impulsive. Whatever they were doing…

Well.

She wasn’t sure what they were doing, what she’d agreed to by letting him take her hand. What they’d had before had been just as nebulous, after all, awkward touches and one night’s mistake and her going to all his games and him calling her when she got off shift to ask how she was.

She rubbed at the nape of her neck and went to grab another beer from the fridge.

Dinner came and he _had_ remembered her favorite, and he paid for it (father’s money, but he said as soon as the door was closed that he supposed he’d have to look for an actual job in the morning, if anybody would hire him) and plated it and brought it over to the couch so they could sit and eat and watch another sci-fi movie. He didn’t try to make her sit in the grand dining room. He didn’t try to even make her face him or talk to him while she ate. He waited, and was patient, and Maker damn him, but that had been exactly what she wanted. Needed.

She stopped drinking after her third beer, because she knew where things were headed and she didn’t need alcohol making it worse. He laughed and her stomach twisted in knots that were a far cry from the disgust and fear of earlier that day. He said her name and her voice caught in her throat. He’d always been good at making her notice him, but in that moment, for that evening-

Why had she turned him away after the last time?

 _He’s too young_ , she thought, _too immature, too much of a hot mess. He’s a high school student and you’re an officer of the law. Show some respect, show some_ ** _self-_** _respect_. But the boy in front of her - man - was changing. It wasn’t just an act. Something in his new solemnity rang true, in his attentive care, in his caring-without-showing-he-was-caring.

So when he braced his arms against the couch seat cushions, still sitting on the floor at her feet, she threw off caution and settled her hand over his.

—

He could taste beer when he kissed her, but it was faint and buried under spices, under the tea he’d made, remembering how Delilah had always drowned herself in it when she felt heartsick. He could taste beer, but she wasn’t drunk, wasn’t fumbling when she pressed him against the kitchen island. He could taste beer.

But he didn’t care.

He settled his hands on her waist, until she slid her tongue into his mouth and he groaned, grabbing at her ass and dragging her close against him. Her hands braced her weight against the counter, until he pushed against her and backed her into the fridge instead. Then her hands were everywhere, fluttering and a little uncertain, and then firm and determined, buried in his hair, clutching at his hip. He nipped at her lip and she gasped, grinding against him.

It wasn’t like the last - first - time, fumbling in the dark, him nearly dropping the condom packet, her on her back because the room was starting to spin. It wasn’t anything like that. She pushed him down and shoved her hand in his pocket for the foil wrapper, let him shove her jeans down while she squirmed out of them, while she worked his fly open and kissed a searing path down his throat. She took him in hand and he nearly came right there, overwhelmed by the realization that it was really happening, that it was happening when they were sober and more connected than he’d ever felt with her before.

She straddled him and guided him into her, and the sounds she made, the way her head tilted back and her lips parted, her eyes closed and her cheeks flushed made it so much better, so much more real, so much more _right_ than it had been those months ago. There wasn’t any shame when she looked down at him and began to move, and his hands skimmed wonderingly over her thighs. She planted a hand on his chest and he covered it with his own.

It was almost tender for just a moment, when she dipped her head down to kiss him, and he curled a hand around the curve of her waist.

And then she rolled her hips and he bucked and there was every inch of tension and fire he knew was in her. She growled and worked herself hard against him, taking him in fast thrusts. He’d have bruises in the morning, could feel every impact, but he held onto her and took it, took _her_ , because this was what he’d wanted. And when she bent down and kissed him again, harsh and full of nipping teeth, he groaned her name and snapped his hips up and pulled her down against him.

The girls he’d been with - some of them had played softball or run track, but most of them had been softer, rounder, and none of them had the same fight, the same discipline. Every movement was a fight, but it was more a wrestling match, drills, then it was a punch thrown or a car window smashed. She spurred him on and he matched her, and when she left red marks down his throat, he left them in turn on her. When he cried out, she answered with a moan, a whisper of his name, a curse.

And then she came apart, grinding down against him and shuddering, eyes squeezed tight and lips parted. He bucked up into her as she tightened around him, ran his hands up under her shirt and back down to move her against him. A few more thrusts, sharp and quick things, and he followed her, breathing her name and letting his head loll back.

He stared up at the ceiling, fan whirling slow and languid, until he felt Cauthrien rise from him- and then settle back against him, head against his chest and shoulder.

“Starting again, huh?” she said, and he chuckled, still breathless and a little ragged.

“Something like that.”

—

She slept in the guest room. So did he. They didn’t go to sleep curled like pups in a basket, and she didn’t wake in the morning with his arms around her, but that present warmth, the dip in the mattress - as odd, as foreign as it was - kept the nightmares at bay and let her _sleep_ , really sleep, for the first time in weeks. And in the morning, when she rose with the dawn and went to the bathroom to shower, she felt out of place only from the layout of the house, and not who shared it with her.

He was cooking breakfast when she came out, towling her hair. Eggs and what looks like bacon, though he was drowning it in grease. The eggs looked rubbery, too, but it was hard for her to fault the son of a senator for not knowing how to make a decent breakfast.

He’d cleaned up somewhat. He’d changed into just a black button-down shirt and clean jeans, but they weren’t ripped or patched and his long hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. He glanced to her, a little shy, a little nervous, and said,

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah.” She leaned on the kitchen island, watching him. “You?”

“Yeah.” He prodded at the bacon, then looked up to her. “So, uh- are we dating then?”

“Plan on being in the news, too?” It would happen. If reporters found out she was dating Rendon Howe’s teenaged son, it would be another mess. But she wasn’t about to tell him _no_. He was an adult  - he’d said so the night before, proved it in his actions, in his support. And she wouldn’t mind another night with him, another day.

He chuckled. “I guess I can manage that.”

He plated up rubbery eggs and greasy bacon, and they both picked at it with their fingers, hunched over the kitchen island. He murmured apologies and she shrugged, and it was companionable. Normal. Not a teenager and a police officer.

She liked it.


	12. The Wait [g, FFXII AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a FFXII AU with spicyshimmy.
> 
> G.

Judge Magister Cauthrien waited at the platform, surrounded by a detachment of the finest Archadian soldiers still living. Her armor was new and gleaming, the ornamentation progressive in its design if not its full form. The steel still erased all personal detail, all defining characteristics, and replaced them with flanges, harsh angles, curving horns.

A new Judge Magister, for a new time - and a new Solidor.

Judge Magister Gabranth and Emperor Larsa had raised her up from the ranks of the Judges, where Vayne Solidor had placed her when the loyalty of his own magisters had begun to falter. She had been groomed for the position. She waited silently, a statue, for the approach of the airship.

Nathaniel Solidor, forgotten son, exiled to Rozarria but returning now blissfully alive. Younger than Vayne, possibly a bastard, and alive. His very existence made her uncomfortable, and she did not wholly trust him - but the emperor’s support was behind him, and he was a peace offering from the far off empire.

He was also half an hour late.


	13. Running [g, FFXII AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an FFXII AU with spicyshimmy.
> 
> G.

A Judge Magister did not fight alone. A Judge Magister commanded men. And yet there she was, on the Phon Coast, running after her charge in full armor while he moved in light leathers and cloth.

“My lord!” she called out, and he raised a hand in dismissal. She snarled and lifted her own in counter, cutting down hard across her chest. The float spell hit him square in the back, and a moment later he was struggling to re-find purchase with the sand taken out from beneath him.

She crossed the space between them and moved before him.

“My lord, stop this foolishness.”

He glared back, and she had to wonder how a man twice the age of Emperor Larsa could look as if he pouted so.


	14. Helms [g, FFXII AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an FFXII AU with spicyshimmy.
> 
> G.

She had tracked him all the way to Jahara. Why he had fled so far, she wasn’t certain, but as she picked her way across the too-dry landscape, she formulated plans to keep the wayward Solidor home and safe. Rope was involved. Leashes, perhaps. Threats of bodily harm.

Bring him home, Emperor Larsa had commanded. And she would.

But it was dry and hot on those planes, and with another wild serpent felled, she took a break for a moment. Leaning against one of the rock outcroppings, she reached up and pulled her helmet off, wiping at the sweat-stuck strands of hair on her forehead, letting the breeze give her some relief.

There was the crunch of grass beneath a boot behind her, and she shot to her feet, whirling, hand reaching for her sword.

Nathaniel Solidor stood staring at her.

She stared back.


	15. Whispers and Thirst [g, FFXII AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an FFXII AU with spicyshimmy.
> 
> G.

Old Archades isn’t somewhere she had ever expected to find herself again.

It wasn’t -  _exactly_  - home. She hadn’t grown up there, at least not in full. She had not been a gutter urchin, a beggar, one of those crushed and bowed beneath the weight of the city above. She had been one of the few, those who grew food for the empire, those who existed beyond streets and towering buildings.

But she had visited.

When her parents had brought the seasonal shipments, she had waited in the undercity. It had been dangerous, true, but so were the fertile planes on which they worked magicite into the soil to improve the harvest. Beasts could be fought off just like men, and she had learned young.

And it had been there,  _there,_ where the army had found her.

And it had been there, strangely enough, a nearly two decades later, that Vayne Solidor pulled her from a pointless patrol and said  _let me teach you the law of this land, and rise you up_.

Now she sits out of her armor (it was lost two months ago, when they had fallen into the Zertinian Caverns and she had nearly been lost to sinking sand) next to the lost Solidor, the one who did not die and did not rule. They have water enough, even in this grim underdark, but they still speak quietly, hushed and ashamed of how out of place they are by dint of the metal they once bore.

But there is a city above to be returned to, once they have rested. A younger brother and an older judge to meet with. An offering to be made.

She passes up the drink, wanting instead the dry parching to keep her ready for what is to come.


	16. Instinct [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G.

"It's a matter of instinct." His hands settle on her hips. He could correct her stance, but it's impeccable. He could touch her hand and pull her draw back further, but she's strong enough to handle the bow he's lent her. All he can do it stand close behind her, voice in her left ear as she draws back to her right.

"Instinct," she repeats, eyes flicking to him and her drawing arm trembling with the momentary distraction. She is used to heavy swords and heavy armor, cloud-shooting in the army, not training an arrow on a single target. He wonders again at the twists of fate that have brought them together, a Warden and one of the fiercest lieutenants Maric's Shield has ever known, her willing to still and listen to him for instruction.

"Yes. You need to trust yourself. It's the quickest way. You could sight every single shot, but in a battle, you won't have the time. At least, not always." He leans closer, lips pressing to her drawn-back hair in a brief kiss before he touches her hand where she holds the arrow steady. "Trust yourself. Just move. Focus, but not too much."

"I can't focus," she says, and he glimpses the twitch and curve of a small smile, "if you're standing this close to me."

"Sure you can." He chuckles, hands sliding over the supple leather clothing her hips and thighs. "I'm sure darkspawn will be more distracting than this."

"Do you _want_ me to shoot you, Nathaniel?"

He bows his head, conceding the point, but he only steps back, not removing his hands.

"Five shots," he says. "As fast as you can. Aim for the target but do not hesitate." And then he releases her, crossing his arms and standing back to watch.

When the _thud-thud-thud_ of arrows striking the hay-stuffed target dies away, there are three near the center, better than her one out of ten just that morning.

"Instinct," she repeats, and when she nods, he knows she understands.


	17. The Grand Tourney [M]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This may one day be expanded on into a full fic.
> 
> M.

The Grand Tourney of Tantervale was just as Nathaniel remembered it.

It had been at least five years, he thought as he wove his way through the crowd and into the stands. Probably more. He didn't give it more thought than the recognition of his time squiring in the Marches, and this, his first real return to them since. He saw the Grand Tourney twice in those eight years.

Then, it had offered little of interest to him, his mind turned to deftness of fingers, sharpness of gaze. The crash of lance on armor, the thunder of hooves, the shouts of men - those were not his world.

They still weren't, but he had gained a more fuller appreciation of them. As he settled himself up in the stands, leaning against one of the broad poles that supported the structure, his eyes searched the wide arena. He had a purpose here, too, a purpose served by close observation of the field. In the stands, there were potential recruits who knew how to hide and lie and slink, but in glinting armor and on powerful horseback where potential recruits who could hold a line, command, and force the darkspawn advance back into the depths of the Deep Roads.

He let the clash and flow of bodies entrance him, men and women in brilliant armor and worn armor and sometimes no armor at all fighting below. He paid attention to the rhythm and the movement. He noted the losers and the winners both, weighed their merits, placed names aside for later.

And then she walked out onto the field.

He had seen her twice before, at the Landsmeet as a child. Then, she had not been a knight. She had been a tall and proud soldier who followed in Loghain's shadow, listening and learning. He had noticed her only for her stare, level and harsh, and her stature, towering over the other women and nearly matching Mac Tir in height. It was later, in his years in the Marches, that he heard stories of her and marked her name.

 _Cauthrien_.

Ser Cauthrien, noble knight and unshakingly loyal to the Crown. He knew stories of her skill and also of insult, tales crafted to insult and deride. He knew the romantic songs composed in Orlais, casting her in her master's romantic light. He knew, too, that _Ser_ was no longer hers; three years before, with the end of the Blight, she had been stripped of her title and cast from Ferelden. And now she was here, in Tantervale, in Marcher armor and without the Fereldan coat of arms emblazoned anywhere he could see, taking down opponent after opponent with her blade and her barked orders.

He made his decision.

 

\--

 

She placed in the Tourney.

He learned though quiet questions afterward that she had taken a position as the head of a powerful Tantervale noble's militia, and had made quite a name for herself in the two years she had lived there. He learned that she was still proud and even more distant than the stories had mentioned. He learned, too, that she would by need be at the Lord Chancellor's estate that evening, at a party given in honor of the champions of the Tourney.

It was to be in the Orlesian style, painted faced and elegant masks, and Nathaniel adorned himself appropriately.

He wore the blues and greys of his order and used them to gain entrance, slipping in to the throng of people, the laughter and merriment, wine and food and excitement. There was an air of romance; he ignored it.

Business was to be attended to, after all, and Cauthrien was not a woman to be seduced except by Ferelden herself.

He found her much as he expected to, avoiding the wash of Orlesian and Antivan and Arcanum and settled in a pocket that spoke only the Common Tongue. She did not speak herself, instead standing aside with her hand on a delicately worked Nevarran glass filled with Antivan brandy, half finished. She wore no armor, but neither did she wear finery. Her doublet was well-made but simple, covering her to the throat and wrists, her leggings well cared for but simple, old buckskin. Her boots were Fereldan in every particular, clunky and sturdy and no-doubt warm, while other women, knights some of them, mercenaries other, nobles the rest, wore pointed Orlesian slippers or Tevinter sandals that laced to the thigh.

But she had found a mask.

That he had not expected, but it made her impossible to miss or ignore. Loghain Mac Tir's dragon had donned the visage of a snarling mabari, and that, combined with her dark hair, her long neck, her broad shoulders and towering stature- no, she could be nobody else.

He approached where she could see, the paint around his eyes itching and cracking already.

"I know that nose," she said when he drew close enough, and she knocked back the rest of her brandy without acknowledgement for its fine vintage or delicate flavors. She set the glass aside, and turned to leave.

He touched her elbow lightly. "Ser Cauthrien," he said.

"You are mistaken, Warden," she returned.

"Cauthrien, then," was his easy correction, and she took a deep breath but did not retreat. "Congratulations on your triumph in the Tourney."

"… Thank you, Howe."

His lips quirked and he inclined his head. "As you say."

She turned to him again, glancing at his hand. "Your congratulations have been given."

"And now I have an offer of employment for you."

Cauthrien frowned, the furrowed leather of the mabari's brow making her appear angry when he hoped her only confused. "I have employment."

"To something I doubt you believe in enough to give yourself to," Nathaniel replied, letting his hand drop. "I have something more."

 

\--

 

The paint around his eyes was half-gone, flaked away by crinkled smiled and light touches, the heat of the room and the chill of the outside gardens. They had shared another glass of Antivan brandy and he had teased her out from beyond her brusqueness with returns of his own. They had drifted, two shadows, around the outside of the party, and then he had taken her hand lightly in his and drawn her to the center when the musicians had begun a Fereldan song, albeit one modified by overexcited Orlesians.

To his surprise, she had let him.

She fetched the next round of brandy when they had taken to sitting in the yard beyond the ballroom, speaking of duty and honor and loyalty, him teasing mournful stories from her and her questioning him on his father, his opinions. They spoke of the Blight and of Fereldan and of Rendon Howe and Loghain Mac Tir in a way neither of them had been able to in years, and when her knee bumped his, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take her hand and bring it to his lips.

His room was across Tantervale in a small inn; hers was outside the city walls at a noble's full estate. There was no debate over which to make for, the question lost as he caught her against one of the outer walls of the Lord Chancellor's estate, sliding her mask from her face so that he could lean in close enough to kiss her. She mumbled encouragement and apologies as she fumbled to return his affections, and then she pushed against his shoulders until he rolled and she could press the length of her body against his. Her thumbs slid against his cheeks as she cupped his jaw, paint flaking beneath her fingers as she learned the feel of him.

There were places dark enough and safe enough that they could lose themselves.

After, he helped her to her feet and placed her mask back upon her face. When they parted and she said to remain in Tantervale a few days, that she would soon be ready to leave with him for a new life, a new duty, he tried not to feel the pang of worry.

The Joining stretched before her if she followed him, and though he thought her strong enough - sometimes, strength was not enough.

He left at sunrise and prayed she had never learned to track a man.


	18. Dandelions [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for MissL0nelyHearts

Holding hands isn’t something they do often, if at all, save perhaps in bed when fingers and arms and legs twine together, or if one of them needs help to stand. It’s something that a part of Nathaniel always wants, but doesn’t ask for. Cauthrien is a private woman, a stoic woman, and it seems- intrusive. Rude. Too intimate, and too sweet.

But he thinks about it, and he’s thinking about it now as they watch the stars come out, horses hitched a fair enough distance away that there’s no worry of Calenhad interrupting the moment to nudge him for apples. The ridge they sit on rises from a field and abuts the woods, and the grass is long and dotted with dandelions, puff white heads ghostly in the moonlight. It’s by her family’s farm. He wonders if that’s what she’s looking at, down in the little valley below instead of up to the heavens above.

He’s looking at her, the line of her cheekbone and the slight up-turn of her nose, lost in sketching out the image for a future time when life might separate them, when she shifts. He barely notes it at first, except at how it makes the shadows by her eyes dance. But then her hand settles over his.

Nathaniel holds his breath.

Slowly, her fingers weave between his. They curl until she holds him, loose but undeniable. And then she squeezes.

She doesn’t say anything, but she closes her eyes and she smiles.  _Her family’s farm_ , he thinks, and he remembers brief mentions of family lost in the war, a past she doesn’t often speak of even to him, and never to anybody else. A life she gave up to serve her country, and a life he suspects she longs for, in some part of her.

He curls his fingers, too, and squeezes her hand.

A curling breeze shudders through the grass and sends seeds floating as she opens her eyes and tilts her face up to the stars.


	19. Additional Responsibilities [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for MissL0nelyHearts, who asked for a puppy in a bucket.

It isn’t a mabari, not like she’s dreamed of from time to time, but it is a puppy, and it is yipping at her, and if it wags its tail any harder, she thinks the bucket it’s managed to climb into (or been put into, but who would put a puppy in a bucket?) will topple over. So she shakes herself and goes to it, reaching in and lifting out the wriggling mass of dog. It whines a moment, then barks as she brings it close enough that it tries to lick her nose.

She blinks rapidly. “Stop that,” she says.

It barks again and wriggles some more, and she sighs and holds it against her chest. It squirms and tries to climb up onto her shoulder, and manages one long, wet lick up the side of her face before she gets ahold of it again.

“I said stop.”

“It’ll be a while before he listens,” Nathaniel says, crossing the yard to her and working his fingers to loosen them against the cold. Cauthrien turns to him.

“Do you know where he’s from?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Hardly matters. He might be a stray - he certainly looks like a mutt.”

A very happy, wriggly mutt who gets free of her hold again just enough to press his snout up under her jaw.

He doesn’t have the cropped tail of a mabari, or the broad mouth, or the pricked ears (but then she remembers that the first and the last aren’t by birth, they’re by handling, and she feels stupid). He’s brindled and his fur is short, and his tail and snout are long and narrow. He’s a fast dog, not a strong dog, or he will be in a year or two.

She finds herself rubbing at his back, and he snuggles close against her.

“Do you think the Commander will let me keep him?” she asks, and Nathaniel shrugs.

“Don’t see why not. If any of us can train a war dog, you can.”

—-

Hafter (because that’s what she names him, after briefly considering  _Dane_ and _Gwaren_  and a whole host of other names that don’t feel quite so right) doesn’t act like a war dog. He acts like a happy, playful little thing, and for the third time Cauthrien stirs with a groan as he pounces onto her back.

She’s just trying to sleep, but getting that across to a rambunctious little dog seems nearly impossible.

Nathaniel stirs next to her, and she cracks one eye open to see him doing the same.

“Don’t say a word,” she says as Nathaniel opens his mouth. “You made me think this was a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” he mumbles, then rolls onto his back and takes the blankets with him - and Hafter. He scoops the pup up into his arms and then flips him, fighting with paws as the dog tries to right himself. “But between him and the nightmares,” he says as he pulls his hand back to avoid a nip, “we may never sleep again.”

She laughs, dryly, and reaches for the sheet. “It’s like having a child, I suppose.”

“Yes,” he says, with a quick smile thrown in her direction, “I suppose it is.”


End file.
